Date: December 2022

The old barn is demolished, the ghosts  of the gentle cows flitting away. Winter comes and the ground  shifts. The pasture goes to hip-length  ragweed and goldenrod. The sun  is lost behind a cloud.     We used to pluck  June apples from the mother- tree and taste their greenness,  vegetable

We’re spinning spinning spinning legs faces bodies bouncing up and down hips shaking now the rhythm quickens everyone faster push muscles in our calves, backs, arms rising to the beat—quick— before we die before we’re gone the night only lasts so long fill it up with color wild brushstrokes

Summer is ending and it feels like: an unraveling. Swirls of silken rage scatter my floor, shredded to bits by the last snippet of compassion I carry. I fear I may have ripped open my seams and forgotten to stitch the trauma back in, I cannot function without its constant leering.     Summer is [&

I lay in bed till the microfiber threads wove their way into my veins. I played dead curled up roly poly till summer was on its deathbed.   and I thought about you, the middle of June, the streets of Seoul— I pretended I was thinking of nothing at all. But the playground taunts that […]

The first night back in her bedroom, I had to relearn who she was.  She liked soft, plush blankets that pull you in  and make you drown under their warm waves  until you can barely tell where the bed ends and you begin.  I have gotten used to beds that keep you separate from them,  […]

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